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Wednesday, 18 July 2012

We set out for IKEA all excitable, armed with lists and plans and dreams of meatballs and apple cake. Even the inevitable queue for the car-park doesn't dent our anticipation. We arrive at the top-floor entrance in a state of whole-family mild hysteria.

The top floor lives up to all our expectations: little pencils(!); paper measuring tapes(!): miniature flats with magic storage solutions(!); (once, one of us was so carried away by the fake bathroom that they tried to use the faux-toilet - but luckily another one of us intervened just in time). There is no real shopping on the top floor, just looking and coo-ing. And then we get to the cafe with its wonderful play-places and re-fillable coffee mugs - we are living the dream.

Next floor down, I'm still in the zone, but the others are not quite so perky any more. There is real shopping to be done, the list doesn't quite match the items on display, the trolley isn't quite big enough and has to be swopped for a larger model, the children have eaten and so cannot be bribed to help with trolley swopping manoeuvres. IKEA fatigue is setting in. When we reach the children's department there's a moment of re-invigoration, but as we leave it behind the day is over - time to go home.

This is when we pass the fabric - I look (longingly) but we press on grimly down the ground floor (momentary excitement again when we go on the magic ramp that locks the trolley wheels).

On the way out, we reach the food store, and suddenly everyone is happy again, but the fabric department is a distant memory.

Of course there's a simple solution: gainful employment somewhere far away for all the rest of the family, while I potter round on my own. Fabric heaven.